


Dial it Down For Me

by phobiaDeficient (TheTriggeredHappy)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Check Up, Excited to go to hell for this, Heart Play, I tried to apply actual logic to the dial guys, It's Okay, Like can we discuss??, M/M, Nobody talks enough about the route where Sans becomes Mettaton's agent, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Kissing, Sensitive bones, Shame is for wimps, Some Dubcon elements, mettasans, not even a little bit sorry, soul play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5570017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTriggeredHappy/pseuds/phobiaDeficient
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sans learns some information about Mettaton that he really should never have been trusted with, and the consequences could honestly have turned out worse than they did. The systems check-up might have been interrupted for a bit, but really, that's their business.</p><p>(Now detailing another point in time where Mettaton decides to turn the tables.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[I'm a filthy sin writer, but at least I'm honest about it. :) Enjoy your gay robot and skeleton]]

 

“Wait, can you just give me an overview of what I need to do?” Sans said into the phone, looking lost and beginning to get irritated.

 

“S-so, uh, you… just go through all his external features, and, um… if everything is alright, you go and clear the data cache on those, then y-you power him down and run internal checks and um… clear out the oil grill if it needs it. You’ll know if it does. That PDF if just um… basic instructions on how to t-test out everything.”

 

“Right.” He scrolled down the PDF. “Okay, buttons, vents, eyes… wait, do I not need to check anything about the dial?”

 

He heard Alphys let out a squeak of surprise. “Th-the what?” she tried to cover.

 

“The dial. On his chest. The giant-ass dial.” Silence. “What’s that dial even for?”

 

He heard her gulp loudly before she began explaining, clearly trying to keep her voice even. “So, when Mettaton was first being built, he wasn’t so much a… performance piece of tech. He was more intended for weapons defense. Like… like the ultimate soldier.”

 

“Yeah, okay.” He wasn’t sure where this was going.

 

“And, um, that d-d-dial…” She paused. “It was supposed to be used to… counter any pain he felt while in battle. It helps generate a feeling of like… somewhat ticklish numbness that would wash out the pain and make it less distracting until he could be repaired again. Only it, um… Didn’t… work how it was supposed to. It generated a slightly less… estimated effect.”

 

Sans processed this for a few seconds. “Alphys, either you’re telling me that you gave him an automatic loopy switch—which I’m pretty sure is the less likely option of the two—“ He could practically hear her sweating. “—or you gave him a _happy button._ ”

 

“It was an accident, and it would have taken months to remove again—“

 

“ _Alphys, jesus.”_

 

“Just don’t touch it, okay?” she cut in before hanging up abruptly, Sans now more educated in a way he wasn’t entirely sure he needed. Being Mettaton’s agent kept him busy enough, and if Alphys ever came back out of hiding again she would be the one doing this, but instead it was tacked onto his endless list of new responsibilities. Apparently every two months he was supposed to run a systems check like this, more often if he started acting buggy. They really couldn’t put it off any longer, so Sans had decided to help him out with it. And now he was curious. Which was a problem. More for Mettaton than himself, though.

 

* * *

 

 

“But it’s so annoying…” Mettaton whined, putting on his best agonized expression. Sans was unimpressed.

 

“Yeah, well so is powering down randomly on stage because one of your circuits is running too much power on accident. If your battery gets drained because you’re stubborn, I won’t be happy.”

 

“But Sans…” He whined again dramatically, swinging his legs up onto the table so he could lay backwards, lounging and pouting like his problems were truly the most agonizing in the entire universe. “Every two months is dumb! Once or twice a year is more than enough caution!”

 

“Until it isn’t,” Sans replied evenly. “Just calm down and let me go through the list, glambot.” He looked down at the physical piece of paper with small, summarized versions of what he needed to do written down for his convenience. He started with Mettaton’s feet, just checking to see if they creaked, same with his knees and elbows, and finally his neck. Already Mettaton looked increasingly bored.

 

“Sans, I do this every week the day before shows start up again,” he said impatiently.

 

“I know,” Sans said, which he did, because it was technically his job to know now.

 

He looked at the list. Check optics and jaw. He was about a foot too short to be eye-to-eye with Mettaton, and the low table that Mettaton decided was suitable for his checkup wasn’t wide enough for them both to sit on. Suddenly, Sans felt the inkling of a plan that he had going begin to grow. He might as well get a head start.

 

Without further ado, he swung himself up onto the table as well and straddled Mettaton, whose eyes widened in surprise (every time Sans could crack his composure, it was interesting to see). “Sans, what are you—“

 

“Hold still,” he said commandingly, and to his surprise Mettaton did just that, closing his mouth after a moment as Sans combed his hair from his face and began looking closely at him. Sans pretended he didn’t notice how Mettaton’s face was gradually warming up. He stared directly into Mettaton’s eyes for several moments (wow, that’s a nice color). He waited for several long, silent seconds, looking over his face carefully, until Mettaton seemed ready to speak again. He spoke up before the robot got the chance. “Alright, your jaw looks like it’s still in line, and your eyes seem to be blinking properly. Can you take in a deep breath through your nose?”

 

He did so, and in the part of Sans’s mind that wasn’t distracted by thinking this was hilarious, he registered that there was no whistle or hollow sound. “Good.” However, he only moved backwards slightly, not quite off his legs, but just above his knees. “Can you put your hands on your hips for me real quick?”

 

He waited for Mettaton to do so before he leaned down and forward (Mettaton’s breath hitched, and Sans was pleased with himself), looking back down at the paper briefly before he ran his hands up Mettaton’s arms (Mettaton swallowed hard and Sans wasn’t sure how he wasn’t already grinning like a maniac). He reached the underside of the spiked shoulder pads, his bony fingers finding the seam and running along it slowly, methodically, and Mettaton was definitely about to lose his cool.

 

“Alright, it _seams_ to be fine.” Mettaton slapped his arm, and now he really was grinning. “Next up… hmm…” Sans frowned at the paper, his acting impeccable. “You gotta do this part for me. Can you open up your soul chamber, Metta?”

 

And Mettaton was completely still for one, two, three long seconds before his hand slowly moved to the glass-encased box. There was a soft buzz and a hiss as compressed air was released, the box popping off cleanly. Exactly how it was supposed to. Sans nicked the box from his hands and laid it to one side, out of the way. Then, after staring at the paper for several seconds, he picked up the small, oddly gelatinous heart from its container.

 

Mettaton seemed to stiffen, eyes staring directly behind Sans into the open air. Sans forced down his sly smirk and did what was apparently the most important part of the checkup. He ran his hand over the substance that almost seemed to want to slip between his fingers, while being entirely rigid. He found no abnormalities, lumps, folds, or places that it was crumbling away, and so that was done. Mettaton still refused to look Sans in the eye, and now the electric humming constantly present when Mettaton entered a room was more than a soft background noise, the volume climbing until it was noticeable. Sans noted how his body temperature seemed to have decreased, and he realized the sound must be his internal fans whirring away.

 

He paused for a moment, before once, experimentally, squeezing the heart.

 

Mettaton clenched his teeth to keep silent, eyes squinting shut in a way that was definitely not in pain. He seemed to hold his breath for several moments before exhaling shakily. His eyes opened back up and—wow his pupils were dilated now and positively _glaring_ at him, Sans felt a great sense of accomplishment that even with these little minute movements, Mettaton seemed ready to crack any minute.

 

And so he placed the heart back in the box (notably not closing it) and wiped his hands (which were strangely damp now, how on earth did that happen, he wondered) off on the front of his own sweatshirt (Mettaton’s eyes had snapped back up to the ceiling when he did that, biting his tongue, no doubt). Then, he picked back up the paper again, acting as if he didn’t notice how Mettaton shifted ever so slightly, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. Sans too was beginning to feel warmer, sweat collecting on his brow ever so slightly. He acted like he was reading the paper (which mentioned exactly none of what he was about to do), and he then, as if he didn’t know the gravity his actions held, reached forward and placed his hand on the dial.

 

Mettaton’s hand was on his wrist before he could even blink, and the diva was staring him down, and Sans stared right back, an eyebrow raised. “Sans,” Mettaton said evenly with great effort. “Don’t touch that.”

 

“Says right here that I need to make sure none of your buttons or dials are sticking,” Sans said, tapping the paper with one hand (don’t call his bluff don’t call his bluff don’t call his bluff). “Doc’s orders, robot, sorry.”

 

Mettaton was clearly looking for a way out of this situation, any excuse to be able to not have Sans touch that one specific dial, and Sans certainly didn’t wait long enough to hear it. Instead he wrenched his hand just to the side (five settings, oh boy, the decisions), and turned it on to the first notch.

 

Instant effect. Mettaton’s shoulders tensed, and his mouth fell open slightly, eyes fluttering closed. “Nng…” he hummed in the back of his throat. Sans turned down the dial again calmly, feigning concern.

 

“You okay?” he asked innocently, and Mettaton was clearly trying to play it cool, steadying his breathing.

 

“Just… hurry up already,” Mettaton said.

 

He shrugged nonchalantly and turned up the dial again. This time, Mettaton bit down on his knuckle, expression firm with resolve, absolutely not giving in to this, not that easily. Well, that just wouldn’t do, Sans thought, and he flicked the dial up another setting to number two.

 

Now Mettaton’s back arched and a sound that could only be described as a mewl left his lips, and Sans realized just a little too late that now he was grinning, and Mettaton’s face was practically burning with shame as he stared in shock at the short skeleton.

 

“W-wait, you _knew!?_ Why, you little—“ Sans was almost positive that Mettaton was about to clock him in the jaw, so instead of facing that, he decisively turned up the knob once more. Instead of punching him, now Mettaton was falling back onto his elbows, eyes fluttering shut again as he gasped, and Sans felt his knees beginning to shake underneath him. The robot groaned softly, but it came out fractured, the metallic equivalent of a voice crack making it jump up between octaves and skip like a broken record for a second or so. Sans’s bony hands, almost of their own accord, found the already opened box containing the jelly-like soul, and he began rubbing his thumbs over the front of it cautiously. Mettaton reacted amazingly, his voice piping back up again, cutting out every few seconds, panting and whining occasionally as Sans mercilessly teased him, and the skeleton knew for a fact that his (deceptively sharp) nails would leave marks in the table.

 

Suddenly, in a moment of resolve, Mettaton’s hand reached up to his chest and flicked the dial down to the first setting again (not off, Sans noted smugly in some part of his mind that wasn’t surprised). He lunged forward, hands grabbing Sans by the shoulders, pulling him in so he was properly straddling him, now easily within reach. Mettaton’s hands snaked under Sans’s jacket and gripped his ribs decisively, and now his own breath was hitching.

 

“H-hey, wh… _mmm,_ ” Sans hummed, voice failing him for a moment as Mettaton rubbed at the insides of his ribs, nails latching on and making his breathing come fast suddenly, puffs of air fighting to escape. “W-wait just a sec— _ahh—_ a second, Metta, you… nng... I can’t j-just… _mmhmmfucking listen to me._ ”

 

“Now, I can’t have _all_ the fun, can I?” Mettaton teased, and the plan was derailed, and Sans was rocking forward suddenly, and his breathing was heavy, and so was Mettaton’s, woah. He saw this wonderful satisfaction on Mettaton’s face as the television star made him cry out, his own movements faltering, and he realizes that it’s the exact same expression Sans himself wears whenever he gets Mettaton to crack. Oh god he’s the one cracking now and he can’t stop it and he doesn’t want to. His head lolls to the side slightly and he practically growls as Mettaton leans up further, eyes bragging as Sans’s movements stutter, the heart threatening to slip through his fingers. He forces himself to focus on the task at hand and he squeezes again, sharper, making Mettaton cry out once, eyes fluttering shut (how dare he have such pretty eyelashes he is a _robot_ why does he even _need those_ ), and Sans moves to flick the dial up a setting again.

 

“Ohhhh my…” The sound cut in and out, and Mettaton’s head lolled backwards. His grip tightened where he had taken the shorter by the ribs, and a strangled groan escaped Sans, who tried to get his breath back under control desperately. Mettaton’s plating seemed to be hot under his bony hand. He listened for a moment and realized that his fans had shut off. Or broken. Oh well.

 

He found himself curious as to what the fourth and fifth setting did, despite the effort Mettaton was clearly making to distract him (one hand moving to drag his nails up Sans’s spine and _oh, okay, ahhhhh man that was really nice oh man,_ _focus…_ focus). He turned it up past the third setting (Mettaton was _shivering_ and making these _keening_ sounds and that should not have been as attractive as it was, dear god) and up to the fourth. This one made Mettaton’s breath catch, clamping a hand over his mouth as a moan carried him back down onto his elbows, head tilting back, trying to muffle the sounds he was making, but Sans was having none of that. He dropped the heart back into the container (it left a sticky, dribbling, neon pink-looking substance all over his fingers, which oddly enough he didn’t mind), his hand moving to tug Mettaton’s away from his face.

 

“What’s wrong there buddy, never cared about being loud before,” Sans said tauntingly, and Mettaton’s eyes flitted open, glaring daggers from beneath those (gorgeous, god damn it) eyelashes as he swallowed back a moan, breathing having gone ragged.

 

“F-nng… fucking _bite me,_ Sans,” he growled, and his glare seemed to be intimidating enough, but his voice sounded shaky, flickering in and out, and his wrist was hot in Sans’s hand.

 

“Not with that attitude,” Sans replied calmly, and Mettaton could barely stammer a reply before he clicked up the dial one more time, and he was falling back, a shaking, groaning mess, coming apart right underneath him in a way Sans was pretty sure nobody had ever seen before, and nobody may ever see again.

 

(Okay, and _maybe_ that was incredibly hot but there was no way in hell Sans would ever admit that out loud, at least not to Mettaton’s face. He would never see the end of it.)

 

Mettaton’s back arched and Sans watched as he tried his best to sit up, pushing himself upward on shaking arms, flicking the dial down to three again. Mettaton grabbed Sans by the collar of his jacket, pulling him into a fiery kiss (literally, his lips were hot enough that Sans made a soft sound of surprise on contact). His hand returned under the skeleton’s shirt, pressing at the inside of the ribs, then at the spine, then the lower spine, and Sans let out a soft cry against Mettaton’s lips as he felt a (hot hot hot) metal hand gripping his pe _lvis oh god hey there, wow, oh boy._

 

He was shaking now, his moans sounding strained as he tried to silence them, and Mettaton smirked, his own soft gasps still escaping occasionally. “What’s wrong, you can dish it out, but you can’t take it, hmm?”

 

“F… fucking…” Sans yelped as Mettaton pressed his thumb _just so_ , and his hands found the heart (still gushing that neon-y liquid), pressing his fingers into it, not quite breaking through, but getting a bit close. Now he was pretty sure Mettaton was almost finished, and he wasn’t sure he would last much longer either, but he pushed forward, pushing, squeezing, trying to ignore just how _good_ Mettaton’s fingers were against him and just how sexy, god, really _really_ sexy Mettaton looked right now, a panting shivering moaning _grinning_ bastard (his voice glitched in a way that was almost even hotter, he was literally breaking Mettaton with this, holy hell), because his pride was on the line and he’d be damned if he finished first.

 

He felt, more than heard, the low hum of electricity that ran through the metal underneath him, but he absolutely heard the cry (“Oh yes” and _fuck_ now he could never hear that again without blushing like a maniac) as Mettaton arched, his grip tightening, liquid gushing, dripping, practically _sizzling_ as it hit the hot metal of Mettaton’s legs (it was almost burning but Sans didn’t mind). He rode it out fairly quickly, his hands turning to switch off the dial now, breathing still heavy even as Sans dropped the heart back in its container, putting the lid on cheerfully.

 

“Well, that was sure— _ah, y—“_ Mettaton leaned forward, teeth finding Sans’s clavicle, hands resuming again. “Hey, y… _ahhh._ ” A hand gripping at the base of his spine, the other at his hipbone, the front of his pelvis—breath catching in his throat, Mettaton’s _smirk_ —

 

He cried out, voice fracturing, arching, head falling back, a shiver running through his body before he fell forward, hands on Mettaton’s hips, panting, gasping for breath. He swallowed hard, his sleeve wiping at his sweat-covered forehead, and he let out a whimper as Mettaton patted him on the ribs, the sensation just over the edge of too much. He felt his shirt being pulled back into place, his jacket adjusted. He finally forced himself to look up at Mettaton, who had an eyebrow raised.

 

“What?” he asked, bristling with embarrassment under his stare.

 

“Nothing. Just surprised.” Sans stared for a long moment. “Just didn’t think you’d be so… _vocal_ is all.” Mettaton sounded almost like he was making fun, which made Sans’s face flush blue (still a bit bright from the events happening not long before).

 

“I’d say you were the louder one here, or at least the more reactive,” Sans said, and Mettaton glanced away. “Might wanna check your internal fans, there, Metta.”

 

Mettaton looked down at his chest, surprise crossing his face as he realized that they were off. “Oh dear. That… probably needs fixing,” he said after a moment’s pause.

 

“Well, I was supposed to check internals next, so… um…” Sans felt the awkwardness coming on.

 

“…Sans, was the dial even in the instructions on things you had to check?” Mettaton finally asked, eyes narrowing.

 

“…No.”

 

“ _Sans.”_

“I’m not apologizing.”

 

Mettaton huffed. “You’re a sneaky, conniving skeleton and should be ashamed of yourself.”

 

“What, for banging the toaster?”

 

_“Sans!”_

 

“I’m not apologizing! And clearly neither are you, since you banged the skeleton!”

 

“I—is banging even the right word?”

 

“Probably not, but, we’ll think of something better for it later. ‘Boned’ sounds situationally appropriate, huh? Things got _steamy._ Things kinda _sparked._ ”

 

Mettaton laid on his back, rolling his eyes. “I’m shutting off now to avoid your terrible jokes, do your stupid internals check, you… you…”

 

“Bonehead?” Sans suggested with a grin.

 

“Yes. Exactly,” Mettaton said. “Then we’re having a long discussion about what on earth we’re going to tell people.”

 

“Sounds good to me,” Sans shrugged, and Mettaton closed his eyes, lights dimming. Sans couldn’t help but chuckle as he picked up the list from the floor, deciding that he would have to thank Alphys later for this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[*Why did I write 3000 words for this????  
> Kudos if you likey, comments if you wanna see more or yell at me about the trash skeleton and garbage-bot (or anything else really, comments are cool), hope you enjoyed! Now I sleep... ^^']]


	2. Dial It Down 2: Electric Boogaloo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively known as "But what if they had ~*FEELINGS*~" or "The really long chapter with actual almost-plot"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[So.  
> Okay, let me explain myself just liSTEN, this was INTENDED to be a one-shot. I swear it was. I wrote my 3,000 word ticket to hell, posted it, people liked it, cool. End. Retire. Get like 20 cats. Cool.  
> AND ThEn I thought, "Hey, since people asked me to make more stuff, and I already started writing some junk on the side, and vtines day is coming up, I should just write another little chapter about how theyre in a relationship now with more sin included!" And... I accidentally wrote 7,000 words. Oops.  
> But yeah, special shoutout to THIS THING  
> http://assortedjellies.deviantart.com/art/DIAL-IT-DOWN-FOR-ME-587218125  
> i am STILL CRYING OVER THIS MASTERPIECE <3's forever  
> anyways, yeah. happy valentine's day to all you filthy sinners. enjoy this trash ship.]]

 

Sans snapped awake at the sound of cannon fire, panic lacing through his every molecule.

 

His breath came under control within two or three inhales this time, and it occurred to him that he was getting better at handling the sudden loud noises. He blinked back into reality and remembered where he was. Backstage, looked like it was evening… which show was this again? The news? No, wait, no, the news never had cannons, that was… the fashion show, the quiz show, and anything from the ___ with a Killer Robot series, right? But it’s Friday, filming for the fashion shows were Tuesday and Thursday…

 

He lost himself in thought for a few seconds, and ended up just getting up and walking to the wings of the stage, looking out to see what was happening himself.

 

Yeah, Killer Robot series again. He leaned on a table that was set up offstage and watched for a few minutes as Mettaton chased around the poor contestant, the skeleton trying to keep from dozing off again. It was tiring, really, doing all of this work, and if Sans didn’t feel a sort of obligation to do his best after everything that happened, he might not’ve even taken the job to start with. It turned out to be harder work than he’d thought. He never realized just how many of the shows were scripted (he’d never really watched any of his shows anyways but for the quiz show and sometimes the news show if he was really, really bored). Now he had an obligation Monday Wednesday Friday to sit in during the writer’s room and keep everything fine and dandy, not to mention whatever royal paperwork Mettaton couldn’t be bothered to do, and what little time he got to sleep was made difficult by the new renovations the glambot had put in the Underground. It was louder than it had ever been.

 

That’s why he treasured Saturdays and Sundays. Saturdays had the morning off and the afternoon just for filming the kids’ shows, finishing filming anything not already done that week, and having the daily news like normal. Sunday was an entire _day_ off, and Sans, as he was want to do, loved his breaks.

 

Sans heard the chainsaw Mettaton was using revving to a stop and looked up, expression dull. He was too tired to deal with any of this, really. The writers had been hellish today, insisting that no, they hadn’t had Mettaton read this book yet on the kids’ show, what _ever_ did he mean? He heard the tech crew bursting into chatter as the curtain swung closed and the cameras shut off. Mettaton strutted off the stage, nicking a cup of water cleanly out of a nervous assistant’s outstretched hand with his trademarked dazzling smile and walking over to stand beside his agent, taking a sip and brushing confetti from his dark hair coolly, either not noticing or not caring that it landed on Sans.

 

“So, stopped by to watch for once?” Mettaton asked, tone teasing.

 

“Nope,” Sans said calmly, flicking confetti off of his coat. Mettaton had insisted when Sans was hired that his agent absolutely could not wear a hoodie around looking like a ‘hoodlum’, so he basically was forced to wear a nicer jacket. The first few times, Mettaton had literally forced it onto him while he had protested (it was not _whining_ MTT, shut up). He insisted on the least expensive, most boring one Mettaton offered, and now had this plain black peacoat that otherwise he would never have worn in his life. “So, how do you think it went? I wasn’t paying attention.”

 

“I think it went really well, I… wait, you weren’t paying _attention?_ ” Mettaton said, looking at him with indignation.

 

“Look, I have to read through the scripts every week anyways, I don’t care enough to see it again,” Sans said, rolling his eyes. Mettaton put his hands on his hips and glared down at him silently for a moment. “Oh, come on, don’t start with that. It’s just not as interesting once I know what’s going to happen already, okay?” he said. “I already know the ending and the lines, I’ve basically seen the show.”

 

“But you don’t know _how_ I’m going to follow the directions!” he said with a huff. “I’m allowed interpretation, and it says just to do whatever I feel is fitting in large swaths of the script!”

 

“Yeah, yeah, okay, _Your Majesty,_ ” Sans said, sarcasm dripping from his tone, far too aware that several of the crew were glancing over at him and Mettaton. “Are we gonna have a domestic right here backstage or should we talk about this while we walk?”

 

“We—we are _not_ having a _domestic,_ we—you aren’t—I— _Sans._ ” And there it was, Mettaton getting flustered. His favorite thing to see. Sans felt his grin widening, and Mettaton glared at him, flicking a stray piece of hair from his vision. “I am the king, I could have you thrown in irons, you know.” He threatened, crossing his arms again.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry Your Highness, am I banished to the couch for the night? I’m sorry darling, I’ll drive the kids to school if it’ll make you happy.” Mettaton was rapidly losing his composure and looked ready to smack Sans upside the head, but Sans just chuckled, turning to begin walking. He waved Mettaton along. “C’mon, food time.”

 

Mettaton deflated, his anger falling away as he fell into step next to Sans. He spared a glance behind him as they walked out of the main part of the set, lowering his voice ever so slightly. “You know that eventually people will realize you’re only _mostly_ joking if you keep doing that,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the people walking by him cautiously.

 

“Dearest, how could you accuse me of such things? I want a divorce,” Sans said, voice deadpan. “Nobody’s going to call us out, Metta, they’re too scared of being ‘thrown in irons’ if they annoy you.”

 

Mettaton’s step fell from a runway strut to a less flashy and more suppressed pace (which Sans mirrored within two or three strides). Sans noted the guilt crossing his face. He paused until two monsters had passed them before he spoke again, robotic voice softer. “Look, I… you and I both know that we can’t afford a revolution. Things are off-kilter enough as it is. Until I get things sorted out, it’s best to just keep anyone from talking too much about all of the problems.” It wasn’t clear whether he was trying to convince Sans or himself.

 

“I’d worry more about fixing the problems than acting like they didn’t exist,” Sans said softly. Mettaton looked at him for a moment before turning his eyes forward again, setting his jaw. Sans paused, trying to figure out what that was supposed to mean. Mettaton was _really_ passive-aggressive when he wanted to make a point. “What?” he asked finally. Mettaton said nothing. “Metta, _what?”_

 

“If it worries you that much, why didn’t you just take over yourself when everything went wrong?” Mettaton said sharply. Sans flinched minutely. Mettaton looked down at him, surprise crossing his face as Sans curled inward on himself a little more, closing off. The shorter skeleton wished, not for the first time, that his peacoat had better pockets. Sans looked at the ground in front of them as they walked, the hallways of the set usually pretty dark after shooting the episodes. He felt Mettaton’s eyes on him, but he said nothing. “Sans, I’m sorry if this seems rude, but… why _didn’t_ you step forward? I think we know who would be better at handling all of this royalty business, and it wouldn’t have been difficult. Even a small show of strength would be enough to take the spot, and I wouldn’t have taken it so quickly if anyone else wanted a shot at being in charge.”

 

“Guys like me aren’t meant to have responsibility. Doesn’t work,” he said quietly. “I’d like to leave it at that for now.”

 

“But you—“

 

“Look, if you want, I can just… help you carry the weight some more. I already help out with a lot of the boring paperwork and stuff, what’s another few packets? I’ll help wherever, it’s my duty as a subject to do whatever I can.” Mettaton shrunk the slightest bit at that. Sans knew he hated taking advantage of people with his power when he didn’t have to. “If you want, I can just take all the Snowdin work forms, since I know more about the place. I don’t mind you dumping papers on me. But I can’t rule. Alright?”

 

“…Alright,” Mettaton said finally. Sans exhaled. “You know, you don’t need to go to _every_ writer’s room.”

 

“Unless you want to reread the same book five episodes in a row, yes, I do,” Sans said.

 

“If you don’t want to read over all the scripts, I can do it myself,” Mettaton offered.

 

Sans looked up at him, suspicion crossing his face. “Is this your way of firing me, or is a bolt loose? This is kinda my job, you know.”

 

“I know, but I’m just trying to understand why you think my shows are boring,” he said.

 

Ah, there it is. This must be why he’s so vehement with the questions today. “It’s just because it’s not my kinda thing, man, don’t beat yourself up over it. I’m more of a quiz show kinda guy, but since I have to make sure all the answers are right before the show starts, it ruins the suspense. It’s that simple.”

 

“Alright, fine. I get it,” Mettaton said, exhaling. They stopped walking when they got to the elevator, and Sans wordlessly hit the ‘down’ button, already (weirdly) used to the route they took after filming for the day was over. Several moments passed in tense silence. Sans could practically feel Mettaton bursting to say something else, but he didn’t speak. The elevator arrived and they stepped in (polished, high-class leather boots with a regular tap-tap tap-tap, a soft shuffle of sneakers that a few weeks ago Mettaton might’ve scolded him for, but now felt weird to be without). Mettaton hit the button and leaned against the wall, arms folding calmly.

 

The doors slid shut and Mettaton spoke again. “Are we ever going to tell people?”

 

Sans blinked. “About… what?”

 

“Us, Sans, whatever… _this_ is!” Mettaton gestured loosely between them.

 

“What even _is_ whatever _this_ is?” Sans asked, mimicking his hand motions.

 

“I don’t _know,_ I just… ugh!” Mettaton covered his face with his hands. “We bicker like an old married couple, we’ve slept together multiple times, or _whatever_ you insist on calling it—do _not_ make a pun right now, I am _monologing_ —“ Sans closed his mouth with a huff. “And I’m not sure what your end of this is like, since you _refuse_ to communicate like an adult about your emotions, but this feels an awful lot like a romance to me!”

 

“I know, but…” Sans searched for the words, but the elevator dinged open. “Can we save this for later?” he asked, taking a step towards the door.

 

“No.” Mettaton pulled him back into the elevator by the (itchy, weirdly snug, awkwardly placed) collar, hitting the button to make the doors close. They shut and Sans was surprised at how fiery Mettaton was right then. “We’re talking about this _right now._ You can’t keep dodging my questions forever. Sans, how do you feel about me?”

 

Sans blinked at Mettaton, who looked genuinely and incredibly stern, something he’d never quite seen to this degree before. “Wh-what?” he asked, mouth feeling dry despite being a skeleton.

 

“How do you feel about me? And I want emotional honesty, not any of that fake stuff you try and give me whenever I ask if you got a good night’s sleep or if you ate a good-sized and nutritional breakfast. No, don’t you try and lie to me, and I know you lie to me when I ask, don’t bother starting,” Mettaton said firmly, cutting off Sans, who had begun to protest.

 

Sans took a breath in and out. He fiddled with his hands for a second before putting them in his pockets. He shifted on his feet. He took another breath. Mettaton simply waited for him to speak, eyes boring a hole into him. He swallowed hard, looking down at the ground.

 

“I… okay, so…” He searched for his words. “You’re… um…” God, this is why he never talked about _feelings_ or whatever.

 

“I’m…?” Mettaton prodded, waiting patiently.

 

“…I think… that you’re… very important to me,” Sans started awkwardly. “And I really like hanging out with you, and want you to succeed, not just because I’m your agent or whatever, but because you’re a pretty good guy even though you like acting like a diva.”

 

“I take offense to that,” Mettaton said, feigning indignation. Sans chuckled lightly, shifting nervously.

 

“But, yeah, so… I think that… I mean, if it’s okay with you, actually… We could be a couple of sorts. And, I would like that a lot. Because I like you. _Like_ like you, I mean,” Sans finished. A pause of silence fell, Sans staring at his feet, waiting for the world to end.

 

He heard stifled giggling, and looked up, dumbfounded, as Mettaton started laughing into his hand. “I-I’m sorry, darling, it’s not—hahaha—I’m not laughing _at_ you, just—“ He nearly doubled over as a flurry of laughter burst forth, and Sans tensed, fists clenched in his pockets out of nerves. “You just—you’re too precious! I suppose I ‘ _like_ like you’ too— _hahaha_. Since apparently we’re _ten_ now.” His laughter didn’t quite peter off, but it fell into soft chuckling. “You really just said ‘like like’, oh my god.”

 

Sans wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or relieved. “Thanks a lot, Metta, this is super nice of you to do.”

 

“I’m sorry, just—you’re so _adorable!”_

 

“I want a divorce.”

 

“We aren’t even married, we’re apparently in grade school.”

 

“You’re sleeping on the couch.”

 

“Oh please, because now you’re _so_ the wife,” Mettaton teased, poking the button to open the doors to the elevator.

 

“What, _you_ wanna be the wife?” Sans asked, stepping out after Mettaton.

 

“I _am_ the wife, darling. I know because _I’m_ in charge,” he replied with a smirk.

 

“You’re in charge, huh? Tell that to Wednesday night, Metta.”

 

His grin disappeared and his face flushed pink, eyes glancing up and down the hallway quickly. “Not in _public_ , Sans!” he hissed quietly.

 

“MTT, nobody’s ever even down here,” Sans reasoned with his grin intact, taking the corner, on auto-pilot by now, feet used to this journey. “All that’s on this floor is the extra stage junk, spare costumes and parts down at the other end of the hallway, and empty rooms for when we have guests come on. And we _never_ have guests come on, that idea kinda shriveled up and died. Your dressing room is the only place down here that anyone has business in, and nobody else has a reason to be down here today.”

 

“I suppose,” Mettaton agreed. Sans held the door to the dressing room for the glambot, still not over just how extravagant Mettaton had to make _everything._ It honestly looked bigger than a penthouse, good enough that Mettaton could basically live there if he so wished. He sometimes did during the week, if filming ran late. On more than one occasion Sans just fell asleep in the (way too big and crazy soft) lounge area. Thinking back, it had been a few weeks since he’d gone back home. He and Mettaton had basically lived in the studio for some time now (for reasons the public wouldn’t know anytime soon). Mettaton walked directly past the desk cluttered with papers that were half filled out, and he stopped at his mirror, taking up a brush and running it through his hair to try and get out stray glitter and confetti. Sans walked in and went directly to the small kitchen, pulling out a bag of chips from the cupboard.

 

“Anything specific you want?” he called, peering into the fridge and taking a bottle of ketchup for himself.

 

“Just warm up leftovers from the cooking show!” Mettaton called back. Sans shrugged, pulling out a container and moving to the microwave, dumping it on a plate and taking a guess about how long it would be before it was ready. He punched in numbers and moved to the table, tossing down his food before going to his backpack. He tugged off his (really really annoying) peacoat and tossed it down too. He rummaged for a few moments before he frowned, searching through the other pockets as well, looking just the smallest bit confused.

 

“Hey, have you seen my hoodie?” Sans asked, beginning to dump out his stuff.

 

 “Pardon me?” he heard Mettaton ask.

 

“My hoodie. The only hoodie I own? That hoodie?” He grinned, emptying the pockets of his bag out. “I hope I didn’t lose it, that wouldn’t be very _hood_.”

 

“Leave,” Mettaton said dryly. Sans chuckled, turning to look at him. Mettaton had the slightest upturn of the lips. “Just get out. Cancel our date plans, you’re fired forever. No, actually, exile. You’re exiled.”

 

“Man, I really hate losing clothes. It _socks._ I hate having to deal with that _shirt_. Not like _shoe_ would know anything about _hat_ , though, being a robot literally without clothes except for costumes.” Sans feigned a gasp. “Metta, what will people say if I tell them I’ve seen you _naked?_ Call the tabloids, this is breaking news.”

 

Mettaton groaned loudly, laying down on his back over his makeup table dramatically. “You’re killing me, this is regicide. I’ll call the guards on you,” he threatened, but Sans could see the way he had to fight to hide his grin.

 

“Sorry, I thought that it needed a- _dress_ -ed,” Sans said. Mettaton groaned loudly, having clearly thought that he was done with the clothing puns. No way, he was the ninja of turn-of-phrase, the knight of one-liners. But his smile disappeared as he looked at his pile of things on the ground. “No, but really though, where’s my hoodie?”

 

Mettaton sat up, frowning. “Erm… did you have it yesterday?”

 

“Uhhhhh… maybe?” Sans said. He thought back. “I think I just changed right into my ‘agent uniform’, which for the record I still totally hate. Last I had it was… Wednesday I think.”

 

Mettaton was blushing, but Sans was more concerned about the guilty look on his face. “Ah. Right. I think I know where it is,” he said slowly.

 

“Yes?” Sans said equally slowly.

 

“…I had a maid in to clean on Thursday morning… and she might’ve taken it to be washed… but I have no idea where it is otherwise,” Mettaton said carefully.

 

“Wait, so my hoodie is just out somewhere in the world right now? God dammit!” he said, sighing deeply. “That thing is older than the average middle schooler, it can’t handle being just tossed in a washer! Can you call and try and get it back here before it’s demolished?”

 

“Of course,” Mettaton said, picking up his phone and getting to his feet, fingers flashing over the buttons before he was holding it up to his ear. Sans heard the microwave beeping and he shifted on his feet, torn between going to get it and waiting to hear news as fast as he could.

 

No, standing around was pointless. He begrudgingly walked to the kitchen, taking the food from the microwave. He put the plate and a fork on the table, sitting in the chair next to it and opening the bag of chips. He heard a few words spoken in Mettaton’s “Royal Voice” (a cheap imitation of what kings sound like in 5th grade plays, which also sounded a lot like his “stage voice”, weirdly enough) and he assumed he was talking to the cleaning crew. When Mettaton returned and sat down, Sans raised an eyebrow in question. “The maid’s having it brought down within the half-hour. Luckily they didn’t get around to washing it, it’s fine for now,” Mettaton said. Sans nodded, relief making his shoulders relax.

 

Mettaton never really asked why he was so attached to that jacket of his, and he never told. He wasn’t even sure he could explain it, really. It wasn’t like _everything_ had changed once Mettaton took over, but somehow, it sure felt like it. He still had his house in Snowdin, refused to let anyone touch his home during the renovations happening on the grandest scale throughout the kingdom. But it was cold now. Empty now. There were one too many unoccupied rooms, and the whole place suffered. The dogs were all gone, ‘disappeared’ like so many others. During what plenty of monsters had taken to calling the Purge, that terrible day and the aftermath, those weeks where anarchy twisted everyone around and made them panic—he didn’t spend them clinging to close family friends, running around and trying to find out if everyone was alive. He spent them in mourning. It helped him get through the worst of it, weirdly enough. Weaker monsters were attacked sometimes if they were thought to have posed a threat to someone else’s control. 1 HP, a blessing and a curse. During the time he hid in his house, only one monster challenged him to battle, and he just walked away, closed the door on them and didn’t come back out. He wasn’t sure if there were any casualties in those first few days, the power vacuum making anyone do something cruel. Mettaton came out on top within the week, and had wrestled back control within the month.

 

Sans wasn’t sure how he was special, to be chosen as Mettaton’s agent. All he knew was that his house was cold, that door was silent, and he didn’t have any purpose now anyways.

 

Things were okay now. Not great, not even good, but… they were getting by. People disappeared if it looked like they might cause another time of chaos. After a few months, nobody was questioning Mettaton’s regime anymore. Everyone was on edge now, almost paranoid in a way. They wouldn’t survive another Purge. As it was, the Underground was practically on its last legs.

 

Mettaton’s speeches sounded the same these days. “In time, everyone will be healed of the wounds left by that terrible human! In time, we will recover, and we will be strong again! In time, the barrier will be broken and this war will end!” It sure did seem strong. He never said how much time. That was smart of him.

 

He and Mettaton were both in… an odd relationship now. Almost romantic, oddly domestic at times, and strangely co-reliant. And now, after their discussion today, he supposed it was just more official. Looking up at the tin man at his side, he wasn’t sure if he felt happy, felt healed. Maybe he never would. That thought left an emptiness in his chest. But he figured he could fill it again, with time. He was finding it easier and easier to put on his smile in the mornings, when he woke up on a mattress to the sound of Mettaton telling what time it was, chastising him for still being asleep, asking what he wanted for breakfast.

 

Yeah, he could live with this. He really, really could.

 

Mettaton (as always) rolled his eyes as Sans took a swig of ketchup, but the expression changed rapidly as the glambot took a bite of… what looked like salmon. “Oh my _god,_ ” Mettaton practically sang, quickly taking another heaping bite. “Honestly, I never know how you learned to heat things in the microwave without making the outside burned or the middle cold, this seems impossible. I could kiss you, but I’d rather have my mouth preoccupied with this fish. God.”

 

“Learned a lot in med school,” Sans said with a shrug and a grin. “Microwave is a college kid’s best friend, man.”

 

“Stop insisting you went to medical school,” Mettaton said, unimpressed. “You absolutely did not.”

 

“I did too.” Sans took a drink of ketchup to wash down the chips. “Got a degree and everything. I wasn’t always a comedian at your resort, man. I had a life before your glamor.”

 

“We all did,” Mettaton said with a soft exhale. Sans watched him with curiosity, noting how his gaze fell to the food and he went quiet for a minute.

 

“Has your cousin called lately?” he asked, technically not changing the subject.

 

“They’ve been busy. Their farm is kinda falling into ruin, since the main customer disappeared. They’ve made a lot of music recently. I heard from them last week, they sound… like they’re happy for me.” A long pause.

 

“Still don’t want your handouts?”

 

“They’re not _handouts,_ ” Mettaton stabbed the remaining slice of fish with more force than was necessary, striking fear into the hearts of fish everywhere. “It’s an apology for leaving them all alone on the farm. And also because I love them.”

 

“Hmm,” Sans said neutrally. “You should ask them to DJ at one of your events. They’d probably have fun, you know?” He exhibited his poor manners by shoving a fistful of chips in his mouth. “Iph ‘oo ‘anna, ah mean.”

 

Mettaton blinked, then his face lit up, eyes positively sparkling. “Why on earth didn’t _I_ think of that?” he wondered aloud, and Sans grinned (after swallowing the food of course, he wasn’t a total neanderthal after all). “I can ask them to play the opening and closing acts for one of my upcoming concerts! Of course, it’s so easy! Now I really _could_ kiss you!”

 

“Nobody stopping you,” Sans said with a wink. He didn’t expect Mettaton to actually do it though, as often his teasing got him nothing more than an eyeroll or a sputter then pouting.

 

No, this time apparently Mettaton was _really_ excited at the idea, because he gripped Sans by the front of his shirt and kissed him full on the mouth, and the skeleton could feel him smiling. When he pulled back again, for the first time in a long time, Sans was the one who was surprised and flustered. No, he told himself, grab the reins again.

 

“You’ve, uh, got something right here, MTT,” Sans said, tapping at the side of his own mouth. Mettaton wiped a thumb at his lip, and looking down, saw a trace of ketchup there. “I got it, don’t worry.” Leaning forward, another kiss, a hand finding his waist, the second tangling in his hair. Metta’s moved to his shoulders, relaxed, easily, because they were used to this, and Sans would never have guessed in a million years that his life would end up this way. There, back in control of the situation, plus he got a free kiss out of it. That’s efficiency right there. 10/10 work Sans. He always forgot that kissing was really fun, but wow Mettaton was good at it. Wow.

 

He felt Mettaton’s fingers idly fiddling with the collar of his shirt. He realized he was just down to his white shirt, and he felt a little exposed all of a sudden without a jacket on.

 

“Mmm… Sans…” Mettaton murmured softly, not moving away quite yet, lips still millimeters away. “Do you think we could try something?”

 

Woo boy, and now Sans was definitely listening. Either Mettaton was _suggesting_ something or he’d just remembered something entirely unrelated to them kissing. He hoped it was the first one. “Uh, sure. What is it?” Sans asked, alert.

 

“Well, I thought we could—“ He was cut off by a knock at the door, and the two of them paused, looking over from where they sat. “Ah. That’d be the maid,” Mettaton said, and maybe Sans was being narcissistic, or maybe he sounded irritated at his thought being cut off.

 

“You should, uh, get that,” Sans said. Neither of them moved. Sans felt Mettaton tracing a circle at the base of his neck using his index finger and wow that was… really distracting. Was that on purpose? Maybe. “She’s probably confused.” Neither of them moved, and Sans swallowed hard, and Mettaton had the kind of eyes you could _drown_ in, dear god.

 

“I should answer the door.” A long pause. The second knock was enough for Mettaton to sigh and stand up, detaching from Sans calmly and walking to the door.

 

The slight young woman held out the jacket, her eyes on the tile floor as Mettaton answered. “Here you are, Your Majesty, as you requested,” she squeaked.

 

“Why, thank you, darling,” Mettaton said, his voice cool and personable as he carefully took the jacket. The girl looked up and blinked, a bit thrown off by something. Sans realized belatedly that Mettaton’s hair was mussed just a bit on one side now. The robot noticed too and quickly moved to fix it like nothing was wrong, still smiling dazzlingly. She looked past Mettaton and caught sight of Sans, who quickly acted like he was eating and nothing else at all. “I’m glad that this jacket is alright. My good friend over there would’ve been upset had anything happened to it.”

 

“Yes, sir, Your Highness, Your Graciousness sir,” the girl said, eyes darting between them for a moment before bowing and turning to leave. Mettaton waved a goodbye and shut the door, locking eyes with Sans instantly. He cleared his throat once.

 

“I hope that stays out of tabloids,” he said, calmly. Sans laughed.

 

“What, king and star Mettaton caught sleeping with his agent?” Sans asked, crumpling up the empty bag and tossing it at the trash can. Perfect shot.

 

“We weren’t even doing anything… yet…” Mettaton grumbled, putting Sans’s hoodie on the table, picking up his container and moving to the kitchen again. Sans took the hoodie and began putting it on when Mettaton said something again, halfway through putting the Tupperware in the sink with the fork. “No, don’t put on your hoodie!”

 

“Why not?” he asked, one arm in, one arm out.

 

“Because it’ll just add another layer of clothing that you don’t need for my idea that got so rudely interrupted,” he said, returning to the table again and taking the bottle of ketchup. Sans considered this for a moment before he slowly took it off and put it on the table.

 

“And, uh… what exactly _is_ your idea?” Sans asked after a second, shifting on his feet.

 

“Sorry, are you getting impatient?” Mettaton asked, smirking over his shoulder.

 

Sans felt his face heating up. “ _No._ I’m just… nevermind.”

 

“Just wait for a moment, dear,” Mettaton said, the sound of plates moving into the sink, water running. Sans still couldn’t comprehend why people wash dishes _right after_ eating. It just felt _weird._ He waited, standing by the table, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, the pockets of his (also weirdly expensive but honestly Mettaton would only let him pick so many things before he got fed up and just shoved bags at him) dress pants. Mettaton walked from the kitchen again and no, yeah, that was definitely a flirtatious smirk. And strut. _Damn_ Mettaton was attractive, quite frankly it was unfair. He watched, but did NOT stare, as Mettaton walked (swaggered, strode, walked, synonyms) to the couch and sat down, crossing his legs at the ankle.

 

"Here, darling," Mettaton said, patting his thighs calmly. Sans shifted slightly before moving as if to straddle Mettaton, which was nothing new, and usually how things started. But he was surprised as Mettaton twisted him and sat him so he was on the robot's lap instead, his back to Mettaton’s chest. "There, perfect." He shifted slightly, curious as to what exactly Mettaton was getting at here.

 

He felt a hand pressing the front of his pelvis and he yelped, jerking back slightly, tense. "Hey, w-warn a guy, next time, Metta," Sans said weakly. Hands now moving to rub his shoulders soothingly. He couldn’t see Mettaton’s face. That was new and weird. Okay.

 

"You really need to relax, darling," Mettaton hummed, and he could feel unnaturally warm breath ghosting his cervical vertebrae before Mettaton's mouth was there, applying pressure gently to each individual centimeter, carefully, like Sans was fragile, which he wasn’t. He was just… out of his element.

 

"I'm relaxed, I'm chill. It's all good," Sans said, but his voice still sounded tight with nerves.

 

"Honestly, you'd think we’ve never fooled around before," Mettaton sighed (and his breath caressed his collarbone), and fingers hooked easily at the inside of his ribs and... _oh._ So _that's_ why Mettaton had him sitting like this. They latched on easily, this angle opening up his inner ribs without any difficulty. A soft, choked sound escaped him, and already his breaths were deepening. Mettaton rubbed at the inside of his ribcage with his thumb, and Sans pressed back against him, eyes falling closed, beginning to relax. "There you are, darling," Mettaton praised him, voice low, and Sans suppressed a shiver. "Nice and calm. This is going to be fun, don't you worry."

 

"You still haven't told me what 'this' even... even _is,_ " Sans said, voice wavering as Mettaton tugged his belt loops, obligingly lifting his hips so Mettaton could remove them fully. He felt terribly bare in just his t-shirt, and the tension was trickling back into his posture again. He didn't know what to do with his hands, and ended up moving them to Mettaton’s thighs. Yeah, that’s better. That’s not as bad. Also they were really soft, so, upside. Sans tried to ignore the flutter in his non-existent stomach.

 

"Isn't it obvious?" Mettaton said with mild surprise. Sans shook his head blankly. "Well, considering how generally I'm the one who gets to have more fun, I thought that maybe this once, I could give _you_ a nice little treat." Sans blinked, turning his head to look at Mettaton, but he couldn't from how they were positioned.

 

"You—you don't have to do that," Sans said, mouth feeling dry.

 

"I _want_ to." Sans felt a tremor go through him as warm metal hands ran up his exposed thighs. "Sit still now, won't you, darling? This time, _I'm_ in charge."

 

Sans bit back a groan as Mettaton laid a kiss at the topmost part of his spine, nails digging into his hips just on the right side of painful. He really _was_ sensitive. It wasn't often that he allowed anyone to do this to him. It had been awhile since Mettaton had reciprocated on this level, usually because Sans found being on the giving end just as fulfilling as the receiving, was more comfortable being the one in better control of the situation. Actually, no, he didn't think they'd ever switched it around this much. Mettaton's fingertips applied pressure softly, trying to relax him, and he could tell Mettaton could sense his tension. Gradually he forced himself to relax, leaning backwards, his backbone against Mettaton's chest.

 

"How many bones are there, total?" Mettaton asked offhandedly. A ploy to make him calm down. He could see right through it.

 

"About 206," Sans replied without pause. He felt Mettaton's smile against the base of his skull.

 

"Can you name all of them?" he asked.

 

"Uh, yeah, I can. It's, one of those... Ingrained things. Can't not know," Sans said, wondering where he was going with this line of questioning.

 

"What's this here called?" He tapped his fingers at Sans's hip.

 

"That's a pelvis."

 

"It's all just called the pelvis?" he asked. Sans shivered as his other hand began moving up his spine slowly, almost absentmindedly.

 

"That's the iliac crest," Sans replied, keeping his voice even.

 

"This?" Moving downward, hooking near the bottom.

 

"Ischium," Sans said, voice clipped, wishing he could turn around and look at Mettaton because he sounded like he was smirking and also maybe he was starting to wish he could pull control back because if Mettaton was smirking he wanted to get _on_ that.

 

"Here?" Mettaton's hand drifted centrally, ghosting with only the tips of his fingers. Sans shuttered, biting back some more embarrassing noises.

 

"T-the... that's the pubis," he said after a long moment, forcing his voice to remain steady (and failing miserably), feeling his face flushing with shame.

 

"Hmm." Mettaton suddenly moved, pushing Sans off of him and down onto the couch. He ended with his hands held in place above his head, Mettaton's free hand on his thigh. "And this here?" he asked, running his fingers upwards and along the central inlet.

 

Sans's back arched instinctively. "Oh, f- _fuck_ , ah..." he groaned, tensing. This must be the draw of the receiving end because holy _shit_.

 

"What was that, dear?" Mettaton said, and when Sans looked down at him his eyes were half-lidded, and he had that _smirk_ —

 

"Pelvic inlet," he breathed, head falling back again. _"Jesus."_

 

"Sensitive?" Mettaton asked innocently and Sans dug his fingers into the sofa beneath them, breath stuttering, the metallic fingers running along the inner curve with the lightest touch.

 

"F... fuck off," Sans said, trying to get some kind of edge in there, but instead it came out sounding like a breathy groan, and he hoped he didn’t sound as desperate as he was. Which was really desperate because god that was… wow.

                                      
Mettaton leaned forward, laying a lingering kiss against Sans’s spine, and the shorter of the two felt his breath catch as Mettaton pecked again and again, lower, lower—

 

“Fuck, Metta, I’m not… I’m not gonna last very long if you keep doing that,” Sans said suddenly, voice trying for humor and failing.

 

“What was it you said this was called? Isseam?” Mettaton asked, ignoring his statement entirely, before laying an open-mouthed kiss to the area in question. Sans would’ve corrected his pronunciation, but he was too busy groaning, arching, eyes falling closed. Apparently Mettaton liked that, because he did it again, and fuck fuck _fuck_ why did Alphys give him fully functioning lips and teeth.

 

_And a tongue too this is just unfair._

 

Sans tugged at his hands and realized belatedly that Mettaton was holding them in place above his head still, but he wished he could try and muffle the cries of pleasure escaping his mouth as Mettaton continued his little performance more centrally, because way too late Sans realized that this is absolutely what it was and he didn’t expect to be the audience. Co-star? He couldn’t think straight, could barely think about anything else at all but the fact that oh god this feels amazing and he’s seriously not going to last long. His face was flushed, his chest heaved, he was positively trembling, and he was not used to this but he figured with time, he could be. This was amazing.

 

Mettaton chuckled lowly as Sans rocked forward. “God, Metta, I’m… ahn, fuck, please…” he whined, and he felt embarrassed as he realized he absolutely did sound as desperate as he was, and Mettaton was loving it.

 

“Close, darling?” Mettaton asked, and he was absolutely bragging, and his breath felt like torture ghosting over him, tongue felt like ecstasy pressing over every sensitive centimeter, like electricity was arcing through him.

 

“D—oh, fuck…” And yep that was the pelvic in _let_ _dear lord._ “Don’t b-be a… fucking… _ahhh.._.” And Mettaton wasn’t wasting a single second to tease anymore. A tongue tracing over him, slowly, precisely, applying just the right amount of pressure to drive him out of his mind, and he dug his fingers into the cushions above his head to try and ground himself. It wasn’t helping and he shivered unbearably, a whine escaping his mouth from behind clenched teeth, and Mettaton hummed lowly and that felt far better than was allowed, than was fair. One hand still holding Sans’s by the wrists, the other digging nails into the base of his spine and Sans _keened_ , the sensations just barely too much, too many things, too good, too close. He rolled his hips desperately, begging incoherently (more, less, didn’t matter either way to him), and maybe Mettaton was being a goddamn tease, or maybe he just didn’t care, but he pressed on, no more, no less. He couldn’t hold himself back anymore, couldn’t stall for time, and as Sans tipped over the edge he faintly registered that he should probably be more worried about the fact that if there was anyone anywhere near there in the complex, they 100% heard him as he cried out, arching, voice rising to what was nearly a yell as every inch of his body tensed up under the waves of pleasure assaulting him.

 

When he came down (which took longer than anticipated), panting heavily, he felt a hand gently rubbing his shoulder, comforting, relaxing. He latched on to the sensation, trying to catch his breath. He felt the hand leave for a moment before he felt a thick blanket being thrown over him, the fire fading into a slight chill. He looked to the side and saw Mettaton, smiling with satisfaction, arms crossed.

 

“Enjoy yourself?” he asked, voice chipper.

 

Sans tugged the blanket over his face, groaning. “Shut up you smug little… yes, I did. A lot. Clearly.” He heard a chuckle. “Shut up.”

 

“Didn’t say a word.”

 

A few moments passed in comfortable silence. When he regained his breath, he tugged the blanket off of his face and moved to sit up, nodding to the place next to him. Mettaton took the hint and sat down beside him, where they comfortably, easily (when did it become so easy?), leaned into each other, shared the warmth and the afterglow, shared the blanket, shared their presence.

 

“So,” Mettaton started, softly, before Sans had the chance to drift off to sleep. “Is this something you would like to turn into a reoccurrence? Did you enjoy it?”

 

Sans thought this over, deliberated for several moments. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, that was… that was absolutely amazing, but… I feel like kind of an asshole for being the only one to get anything out of it. I wouldn’t say no to doing that again, because… yeah, holy shit… but I like it being more mutual, I guess.”

 

Mettaton nodded. “That’s understandable,” he said. “But darling, you need to remember that you don’t need to be so embarrassed to be on the other side of it. I just thought it would be fair to give you a chance to shine. You did have fun?”

 

“Understatement of the year,” Sans mumbled, and he felt Mettaton elbow him. He chuckled. “Yeah, I did.”

 

“Alright. Just wanted to make sure,” Mettaton said, relaxed, peaceful.

 

They lapsed back into silence. Sans felt sleep beginning to pull at him, and knew that he should really go to the bed not five yards away, but he couldn’t find the effort. Mettaton seemed to be thinking along similar lines, but neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. They simply sat, suspended in the calm of the moment, complacent.

 

“Love you,” Mettaton said softly, and Sans felt a stab of… something go through his chest. He looked up, but Mettaton was averting his eyes. The silence had turned heavy, and it felt like he was bearing his heart again, putting too much on the line again, but he didn’t stop himself from replying in turn.

 

“Love you too.”

 

And the skeleton was terrified beyond comprehension, because just then, he realized that he meant it. Really, truly meant it.

 

And just then, Sans decided that maybe things could turn out okay. Maybe not right now, maybe not for quite a while. But with time.

 

Sans fell asleep to the sound of a soft, mechanical whirring. He was content.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[THERE. 7,300 WORDS. OF SIN. RIP IN PEACE ME  
> hope you enjoyed and seriously I was overwhelmed by all the positivity that this thing got, I just... <3 to everyone. thank you so so so much. have a cool valentine's day/single's awareness day to everyone out there, thank you for liking my trash shipping, and... yeah. Just. love yall.]]


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